


Wrapt in a Woman's Hide

by Gileonnen



Category: Henry VI Part 3 - Shakespeare, Richard III - Shakespeare
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Canonical Child Brides, F/M, Legacies of Violence, Male Character Written as Female, Political Marriages, Sisterhood, Unbeautiful Brides
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 17:24:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/pseuds/Gileonnen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The youngest child of Richard of York is a daughter--and the women of York make good use of their marriages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrapt in a Woman's Hide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_alchemist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_alchemist/gifts).



Isabelle of York, they say, was born with a full set of teeth and a twisted arm and back--and although she couldn't say whether it's true, that she was born with all her teeth, she _does_ have a twisted back, and she _does_ have a withered arm, and so she supposes that story might have some truth in it as well. "Never mind, Belle," says Elizabeth, who is thirteen and about to be married. She has luminous eyes and a fine, straight nose, just like their brothers; she is, thinks Isabelle, a beautiful woman.

She is a good bargaining chip because of it, and although Isabelle is only five and a half, she recognizes this at some deep level. "I wish I could be engaged," she says, with a long sigh. "I'll never be engaged with _this_ on my arm."

When she holds up her shriveled hand, though, Elizabeth only kisses the tiny fingers. "Oh, Belle--thou'lt marry when the time comes. Anne married when she was only ... seven? Eight?"

"George says I won't live to eight," says Isabelle.

"George won't live _past_ eight if he says such things again," she snaps. "He's a bully, and a fool, and I won't hear him speak to thee like that."

George is also very beautiful, but his beauty means something different from Elizabeth's. He and Edward and Isabelle have the same dark eyes and lowering brows, but their parents tell the boys that they will lead men one day. When they look into their sons' eyes, they see pennons and long guns reflected there, and they see their sons at the head of a column.

Isabelle thinks, as Elizabeth begins to braid her hair, that she would like to lead men one day.

-

Margaret has schooled herself to patience in her engagements; it would be foolish to be over-eager to wed, and Margaret is disinclined to foolishness. She has watched Anne and her husband grow slowly apart, snarling at each other over the prospect of alliance with Lancaster. She has watched Elizabeth bear three sons and lose one, and she marks well the swell of Elizabeth's belly. "It will be another son," she tells Isabelle, who only nods and tries to smile. "Elizabeth was born for bearing sons."

"De la Pole sons," counters Isabelle, who is fifteen years old and well-taught in her family's hatred. "The grandchildren of that bastard William de la Pole--however Father forgave him--"

"We took his head before thou first peeked out of our mother's womb," says Margaret, low and deceptively light. She has a way of speaking softly that commands the attention; Margaret is tall and thin as a blade, and like a blade, she draws all eyes to her. "What of it, if her sons are his grandchildren? They're Father's grandchildren, too. Canst thou think it an accident, that he wed Anne to Exeter and Elizabeth to Suffolk?"

"And then the queen took his head for her favorite's," Isabelle replies. She can hear that her voice has grown hard, and she cannot bring herself to care. At court, she will teach herself to smile and to make pretty eyes at the queen--for despite her body, Isabelle has grown into a pretty face--but with her Margaret, with her sister, she can hate the royal Margaret all she likes.

"Mother will marry thee to Burgundy," says Isabelle, when her sister doesn't answer. "Why is that?"

Margaret studies her for a moment, touching her thumb to Isabelle's chin as though trying to read a history or a prophecy there. She was never meant for this cycle of marriages, the way Elizabeth was; she was not a woman born to raise child after child. Elizabeth holds court from childbed as easily as though from a throne, but Margaret is Athena, and the world is a text in her hands. "Because the war has grown cold," she says at last. "We took the head of de la Pole; they took our father. What other heads wouldst thou have us take? Which of our heads wouldst see taken? No, sister--the time of beheadings is over. Now is the time of marriages, and my task is to secure Burgundy against the queen and France."

"And which territories will I secure?" asks Isabelle. She knows that theirs is a catechism as old as matrimony, and she must learn the responses that the world will soon demand of her.

"Speak with Westminster," advises Margaret. "Learn to charm him, and thou wilt secure all of England for the house of York."

-

Elizabeth's next child is a daughter, whom she names after herself. _A single York in the house of Suffolk,_ thinks Isabelle savagely.

She turns to Edward of Westminster, hands concealed demurely beneath her sleeves and back as straight as she can make it. She searches his face for some evidence that he's a bastard--some resemblance to Elizabeth's husband, to that head of William de la Pole that she has never seen and can never see.

She sees nothing, or tells herself that she sees nothing, and she lets him kiss her withered hand. "Tell me of your time in France," she says, and to his credit, Edward understands that she does not wish to hear of the people's manners or of the tranquil countryside. He tells her instead of how the Earl of Warwick knelt before his mother, and he tells her of exile in his mother's land and his father's--for whichever man's get he is, England is still his father's land.

It will not do to have him thrown out of the succession as a bastard--not when she stands a better chance than Edward does of retaking the throne.

-

No one tells Isabelle that she makes a beautiful bride. Her mother studies the procession with lips pursed tightly, as though certain that God will intervene with a bolt of lightning to prevent the nuptials. King Henry takes her hands (the tremor in his palms is more than palsy) and blesses her, and tells her that he hopes she will be happy with his son.

Perhaps she will be happy, she thinks, as she looks up into Edward's eyes. He is a year her junior, and achingly lovely, with his soft hair curling beneath his coronet; he is the kind of beautiful boy who makes her yearn to be as good as he. When he speaks of exile, she aches to make him whole.

She locks her gaze with Queen Margaret of Anjou's, though, and in those fierce eyes, she sees what kind of woman a queen must be for a good king.

Her sisters are absent as she accepts the prince's hand, but George of Clarence watches her with his brow clouded and his jaw clenched in jealousy.

She smiles at him, and her smile shows all of her teeth.


End file.
